


Noche Oscura Del Alma

by summoninglupine



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fae & Fairies, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 08:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21389365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoninglupine/pseuds/summoninglupine
Summary: The door calls to her, wooden vines that seem to move. she will always recognise a door to another realm, can't help the curiosity- the hope- that despite what Aslan said, it may bring her back to Narnia.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Noche Oscura Del Alma

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElasticElla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/gifts).

> for the fae ficathon, [come join us \o/](https://elasticella.dreamwidth.org/22891.html)

There were other doors, other doors to other places, she knew that, she remembered being told this as a child in the musty old house where they had stayed during the war. She remembered the professor, kindly and yet somewhat sorrowful, remarking that there had been a place between, a place of trees old and new, and that each shimmering puddle in that strange other place was a door of its own, the threshold of somewhere else, somewhere far away.

And yet when she had found that old door, when she pushed the palm of her hand against its old wood and felt the warmth within, she had not been thinking of those other worlds. Instead, with her free hand, she had brushed away the holly and the ivy that crowded its old, scarred shape, and she had given herself over completely to the tremor in her heart, the lightness of her hopefulness, her neediness.

To think, after all these years, _a door_!

What would they say, she thought suddenly, leaning against the door with her elbow, pushing hard, forcing it inwards; what would they say, after all this time, what would they say? Would they still look the same? Would they still be children? The idea frightened her, and she was unsettled by that notion, that they might yet have remained children whilst she had grown, whilst all around her had grown, interested in nothing now-a-days except nylons and lipstick and invitations, they had said of her. And yet, how could she not be? When all the world had been treating her as woman, when all the world had been turning to gaze at her as if she was a woman, when it had expected of her to act like a woman regardless of the anxiety she might have felt, how could she have been expected to do any different?

21-years-old, she had been, too old to carry her bow with its unfailing arrows, too old to blow upon the horn that would summon friends to her aid. She had had responsibilities, she might have explained, had they remained, it wasn’t that she enjoyed the pretence, it wasn’t that she understood the way in which she was treated, but it wasn’t as if she could dismiss such things. And, after all, hadn’t they felt it before? When first they had grown, when first they had matured, when they had ruled from Cair Paravel; when first she had been an adult, she had been the same, had understood that there were different ways in which men might view her—why had she been punished for following this same instinct when again she was called on to grow up? Had not they all had their own court intrigues within the castle walls? Why had she been singled out alone when again it came time again for her to reach adulthood?

She had tried not to think of these things, even as the door had given beneath her pressure, even as she had been admitted within, her walking boots crushing autumn leaves into dust as she left one world and slipped into the next.

At first, she had told herself that her wish had been granted, at first she had told herself that she knew where she was, that surely Aslan’s How was not far from the path that lead through the woodland. And yet the further she had journeyed into that twilight autumn the more doubt had consumed her. But when she had seen the table so rich with offerings, not that old stone table upon which dear Aslan had once given up so much for them, she had abandoned all concern of what she should expect. So consumed with fatigue and soreness, she had approached without thinking, taking her place at the table, and, free from concern for the rules of such a place, she reached out and began to eat, lifting fruit from wooden plates and dampening her lips with wine from carved bowls.

There are other worlds, a voice whispered at her side, and she froze, eyes wide, hands trembling. There are other worlds, the voice came again, ruled by other gods, cruel and wise, the guises of which your lion might adopt but never know.

A woman’s voice, she thought, regal and cold. A witch, she asked herself; _the_ Witch, she asked herself.

She felt a dreadful fear, a crushing ache, a terrible longing, and she knew then, that this was not the place of her childhood, this was not the place over which she had ruled from that distant throne in Cair Paravel.

At once the table was crowded, loud and raucous, filled with every creature imaginable, ogres with monstrous teeth, and wolves, and bull-headed men; spirits of evil trees and poisonous plants; and she was suddenly filled with fear and dread, the firm, cold grasp of hands upon her shoulders.

W-Who are you, she asked, and her voice was that of a girl once more, not a woman.

You know my name, came the response.

She swallowed hard, and her lips were dry as if she had never tasted wine.

W-Who are you, she asked again.

They write poems of me, stage plays, sing songs.

W-Who are you, she asked a third time.

The table fell silent, all eyes turning to her.

She knew that name, she had known it all her life, and yet she dared not speak it, she dared not make the sound of it with her dry lips, her leaden tongue, her trembling voice.

It didn’t matter. In the mouths of those around her, ogres with monstrous teeth, and wolves, and bull-headed men; spirits of evil trees and poisonous plants, the name had already been called forth.

Gloriana, they sang; Gloriana, they whispered.

And in her heart, Susan Pevensie knew she would never go home again.


End file.
